


I Like How He Smells

by brightbulbs



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Abuse, Gap Filler, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Reference Sexual Abuse, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-03-17 22:33:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3546194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightbulbs/pseuds/brightbulbs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian likes how Mickey smells. A season 1-5 gap filler of sorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's New

Ian hears the shower head turn off and some rustling around in the Milkovich bathroom, taking it as a cue for him to get up and get going. If he gets his clothes back on fast enough, maybe he can dig through Mickey's dresser and nightstand to find what he initially came for. He'll just take it and leave. 

Picking his pants up off the floor, he shakes the pant legs loose and slips in one leg after the other. He pulls the pants up over his hips when he notices the gun bounce onto the mattress out of the corner of his eye. Ian looks up to see Mickey, freshly showered and clothed. His black hair sticks up in wet spikes and his skin is pale and glistening, no longer smelling of gym socks and stale beer and nicotine and cum. His cum. Maybe that was the point.

Mickey stares at him, slack jawed, and Ian takes it in. His lips are plump and pink, and Ian leans in to claim them. Mickey's staring at him still, and as he leans in he smells it. It's slightly sweet, he notes, but not like sugar. Its soft and wet and fresh and brand new like grass after a storm. As he closes in, Mickey rubs the corner of his mouth with his thumb and turns swiftly on his heal. 

"Kiss me and I'll cut you're fucking tongue out," Mickey says, his tone steely, leaving Ian standing there alone in his room. 

His room is sharp and sour and nauseating. Ian quickly slips on the rest of his clothes and tucks the gun into his waistband. He tries to leave as quick as possible. 

 

* * *

 

Mickey finds him again and again, and Ian finds himself eager for it. Itching for it. Needing it. 

He doesn't just wanna see Mickey or touch Mickey, oh no. He wants to experience him. His pink lips, his stocky frame and tight heat. His smell. Ian wants to plant his nose in the boy's messy hair as he fucks him, and to hear his soft pants and moans. Mickey, the boy with the soft sweet smelling skin, hidden under layers of grime and sweat soaked clothes. He feels so desperate for it again, and it's ridiculous how he can't contain his grin when Mickey walks through the door.

And that's what he does, experiences him, curling his arms around Mickey's waist and burying his nose into the nape of Mickey's neck. Mickey's too far gone to register it, bent over and clenching around Ian, holding tightly to shelving in the backroom. At least if he registers anything at all, he doesn't say anything. The shelving shakes and bottles clatter and Mickey moans. Ian breathes it in and exhales warmly onto Mickey's neck.

Mickey's too far gone to notice a lot of things, and Ian's grateful for it when he needs this kind of distraction. The world could crash around them at this very moment, but it's all good because buried inside Mickey, he can smell that sweet smell and forget. Forget Kash. Forget when the rent and utilities are due. Forget his mom, and goddamn Frank. Forget. 

And Ian thinks he's developing a reckless streak as he gets more and more daring each time they fuck, but he feels invincible when they're like this. His hands slide down Mickey's chest, making Mickey shudder underneath him, his stomach muscles twitching. Ian grips tightly around Mickey's hips to deliver a few more powerful thrusts, eliciting pleasured cries that Mickey tries to suppress biting his pink and plump bottom lip. Then Ian reaches out, grabbing onto the bony knuckles that are gripping the shelving so intensely. Mickey doesn't protest the action, and Ian feels himself approaching the finish line. 

Ian feels euphoric from it, surrounded by Mickey's scent and warmth, and almost doesn't realize the door opening up behind them as he's about to find his release... 

 

* * *

 

And Ian's wrong. The world crashes around them and he can't forget. 

Ian hears Mickey pant painfully, and his heart pounds out of his chest as he sinks to his knees beside the bleeding boy. He doesn't know what to do with his hands. He doesn't know what he can do to make it better. He brings them around Mickey's face, urging Mickey to look at him. That's when it hits him. Metallic and raw and pouring from Mickey's wound. It overwhelms him, and his heart pounds faster and harder and Kash still has not put that damn gun down.  

Ian swiftly unties the apron from his waist, and moves Mickey's stiff shaking hands away from the wound. Wrapping the apron around the wound, he ties it in place and turns to clasp one of Mickey's hands. Mickey uses his free hand to cover his tear stained face. 

"Call someone!" Ian screams, exasperated. The gun is placed on the counter with a clink, and Kash walks away from the counter stupefied still. Weak. Incompetent. Ian leans down real close to the whimpering boy below him. He hesitates for a moment, and then it's there again, momentarily distracting Ian from that sick metallic scent. Calming him just enough.  

"You'll be okay, okay? I'll get some help." Mickey nods his bottom lip quivering. 

When the flashing lights come, Ian hides away in the store's backroom bathroom as they take Kash's statement and get Mickey on a stretcher. Ian washes his hands, scrubbing and scrubbing until the image of Mickey bleeding out in front of him leaves him. He closes his eyes, and tries to focus on something nicer. Something softer. Pleasant. Calming. 

Something new that's becoming intimately familiar and precious to him. 

. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gap fillers for each season, providing some insight as to what's so special about Mickey's smell. I know it's weird. I'm sorry. I'll update tags as they become more relevant, but let me know if I need to add anything beforehand.


	2. It's Familiar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To avoid any confusion, please be aware that this chapter is set in season two. Each chapter represents a different season, and are in sequential order.

Mickey's got this grin on his face when he meets Ian at the street corner, backpack slung over his shoulder. There's an energy between them, thrumming under their skin, and Ian can tell he's going to remember this night. He almost can't believe how much he's missed this. He's thought about it a lot, since Mickey's been locked away. He's thought about a lot of things. Like Mickey jerking off without him. Like that stupid smirk on Mickey's face. Like that scent he can't get enough of. Oh, he can't get enough of it.    

It's a muggy night, and the insects are loud and chirping. He pours his thoughts out into the space between them, and Mickey lets him. Mickey though, Mickey is a locked diary. A password journal. So you make a lot of friends on the inside? AAhn. The password you have entered is incorrect, please try again. And he'll try again, but not now. Not when Mickey is looking at him that way with beer dripping down his chin and his teeth pulling his bottom lip into his mouth. 

Ian spins him around, and Mickey drops his pants. They settle into a rhythm just like before, and Mickey's hands grip the fence, rattling it as his body is jerked forward. How dare he, really? Ian thinks, pushing in harder. He gives him everything, Ian thinks. He pulls out and pushes in harder. He gives Mickey all the tools to make Ian want him more, Ian thinks. He pulls out and pushes in harder. He knows he can only blame himself for giving too much away. He doesn't know Mickey's scared he's giving too much away already, even though Ian fights to unlock him.

To truly get inside him.   

Mickey screams into the empty field without a care. It's the picture of freedom. The summer. The night. This. Them. Ian wants to stay here, in this moment in time. He wants to grip Mickey's sweaty hips, and rock into him over and over. He wants to share beer that tastes bad and cigarettes that smell bad. He wants to work his way inside Mickey in more ways than one, and he wants Mickey to let him.

Mickey blows smoke in his face with each word he utters, like a dragon guarding his keep. Maybe he'll get there some day. For now, he just turns Mickey around and slips inside him once more. 

* * *

 

Getting Mickey onto his back is no easy task, or so Ian thinks. Having Mickey face him, to see those lips part and those pupils dilate, seems like a faraway fantasy to him. It's a miracle when Mickey strips out of his pants and boxers, and lays himself down on top of the stacked crates, gripping onto Ian's clothes and pulling him forward. It doesn't take long for them to settle into a slow rhythm. Ian snaps his hips forward. Mickey's breath hitches, and Ian can feel Mickey's finger tips dig into his arms with each thrust he gives Mickey.

It seems morbid to be back here again. Ian wonders if Mickey feels the same. The chilled room dulls his senses, and if it weren't for being buried deep in Mickey's heat, he thinks he'd be shriveled up. He jerks Mickey off with his free hand, the friction and pace bringing warmth into his hand and keeping Mickey hard. One of Mickey's legs is hooked over his arm, and the other rests against his shoulder. Ian almost laughs because Mickey's pungent socked foot is inches away from his face, but he thinks this is alright.

Sometimes he dreams about laying Mickey down on a hotel bed. Fresh and clean, like after the first time. Burying his face into his body, and enveloping him tightly into his arms so he wont disappear. This is alright though. He knows this body well enough. He knows this place well enough. Focus on the feeling, he tells himself, and nothing else. See him grunt beneath you until you're pounding soft smooth moans out of him that he'd never admit to.  

Mickey whines, rearing his head back and exposing his neck. It takes everything Ian has not to dive into it. To lick and nip at the skin there, leaving something for Mickey to remember. It takes everything Ian has. 

 

* * *

 

Ian hates his father more than most people, and he'll be damned if the asshole gets between him and his addiction. He needs this. To touch Mickey. To be inside Mickey. To breathe Mickey. No piece of shit father is worth losing this. 

Mickey's skin prickles in fear. It's not pretty. It's not neat. It's not clean. Mickey is a wreck, dirt under his fingernails, dirty fingernails on dirty fingers, dirty fingers swiping the side of his mouth like a nervous tic. He rants about this and about that, and Ian would think him a mad man if he didn't know Mickey at all or at least know his body. He tries to remember that he doesn't really know Mickey.

Not really.

He knows he likes having sex with Mickey. He knows what Mickey smells like underneath his unkempt appearance and all this bravado radiating off of him like acrid water. It's something only he knows, and that's enough for him to hold onto, but he's losing his grip. Mickey is harder to tame than a wild bull, dodging every bit of reassurance Ian desperately tries to give him and adamant about charging towards his target.

It shouldn't be different than Lip and his girls, or Fiona and any one of her boyfriends, but he knows it is. He's just lying to himself and lying to Mickey. He does that a lot. This can only ever be backroom fucks and passing cigarettes back and forth between them, but he lies and tells himself it can be more than that. That this is worth saving. He lies and tells Mickey it's fine too, but it's not. Mickey's dad is a piece of shit too, but Mickey is loyal to him anyways. 

He lies and tells himself that this is worth saving until Mickey delivers the final blow. 

He's nothing but a warm mouth, and who is he kidding? That's all this has ever been. He's a warm mouth. Mickey is a warm body, and being addicted to him doesn't mean he's good for him. When Mickey's gone, he hates himself because he can't forget him. His feel, the thick muscled thighs squeezing around his hips and the fingers pinching at his arms. The pheromones emitting off of Mickey that has Ian's hair standing on end and vision blurring.

That familiarity that keeps bringing him back.  

  


	3. It's Intimate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter touches upon Ian's relationship with Ned, but doesn't endorse said relationship. This chapter also deals with the fallout of 3x06. Read at your discretion.

Ian thinks Ned's "nice." Everything about him is presented as clean. His apartment is pristine and overlooks the city. He feels on top of the world, standing naked by the window. Invincible. Ned's hand is on his shoulder, the expensive cologne coming off of him in waves, and Ian feels... vulnerable. 

Ned keeps him happy with expensive gifts. _Mickey's in Juvie, by the way. Mickey hates you by the way. Serves you right, look at you. You tell Monica he's in there because of you. He punched that cop, but he's in there because of you. You look at the gadget that Ned gives you, and you think you'd exchange it for Mickey's freedom just so you could bury yourself in his neck again._

Tutoring sessions. _Nothing comes easy to you. Not like Lip. You learn the steps over and over again, but they don't stick. You lay on this clean bed, the kind you want to lay Mickey down in, and he rewards you for giving him your "time" with step-by-step scribbles in a notebook that you're not going to remember in the morning._

He pays attention to him. He texts you. _You want to yell. You know, about Jimmy's dad?  Jimmy's dad and I-- but you don't want to be that home-wrecker. He texts you, and you feel like you're being hunted. Space... A voice -- that's what you need. So just... speak._

They look at him just like that. He feels so wrong. _Serves you right, look at you_.  He wants to defend himself, but he can't come up with the words. _I think I'm in love with someone I can't have. I'm afraid to prove myself wrong. That I can't do it. That no matter how much work I put into it, I can't get anything out of it. Out of Mickey. Out of school._ Lip is looking at him in disgust. The judgment written on Fiona's face pierces through him. 

Ian says Ned's "nice" instead. 

They think about how abnormal their lives are, and how it just keeps getting weirder. He knows what they want. They want normal.

Normalcy. What is that? Is this  _that_?

This is his normal, though he doesn't want it to be. He's searching for -- 

* * *

 

Mickey gets out early due to overcrowding -- that's what he says. 

Mickey is a whirlwind.

He makes a statement. Mickey is a live wire, and he's always ready for Ian. 

The sweat of his skin glistens in the sun, and Ian is already thinking about how hard he's going to dig his fingers into Mickey's hip bones. He's ready for Ian, and he drops his pants and bends over shamelessly, presenting himself for Ian. Ian can tell that Mickey spent some time with himself before meeting him here, as sliding into him is easy enough. Pushing in, each groove inside of Mickey makes him hot up to his navel.

And Ian thanks the heavens because Mickey doesn't say much to distract him. He _ohs_ and _hahs_ in a way that makes Ian feel accomplished. He may not have the best grades, but he can make Mickey whine. The salty sweat drips down Mickey's back in the summer swelter. He'd lap it up, dragging his tongue over each vertebrae, if Mickey would let him. He doesn't dare ask. He pulls out after they climax, and pulls off the condom, tying it and throwing it under the bleachers.

Mickey's coming down from his high, and lights up a cigarette. "That was good," he tells Ian with a tone of thorough satisfaction. He blows smoke in his face and says he missed him. It tugs at Ian's heart for a moment until Mickey follows up with excuses. Ian's not stupid. He knows what they are. Excuses... aren't they? Or is he just... He asks Mandy. Not that she's had the best luck either, but she's all he's got. She tells him to look for it, and he does. He searches for it. Something to make this more. This thing of theirs, personal and deep.

He's searching for -- 

* * *

 

He's searching for intimacy.

A closeness so euphoric. Mickey's new to this so they start off slow. An empty baking sheet, and chips crumbled on the floor. Empty beer bottles, and the smell of Mickey's cigarettes still in the air. He invites Mickey into his lap, and brings his arms around his back, slipping his fingers into his tank top. Mickey hesitates, lips hovering over his. Ian moves in closer and he can taste Mickey on his lips. Ian nips at Mickey's bottom lip and inhales, breathing into Mickey's mouth. Mickey's eyes are hooded and he's too far gone to care how close they are right then and there. 

Ian thinks he's never been closer than this. 

He wakes up. The scene playing over and over again. It was real, and he knows it was real. If it had been a dream he wouldn't be this angry. Ian wants to scream, and he does. He yells at Mickey's. He wants to pull him in close, but he's so fucking far away. Everything is so chaotic around him. _What happened? Who is she? What's wrong with you? What am I doing? Who is she?_

_Is she pretty?_

Whatever he has to offer, it's not enough. It'll never be enough in this damned universe. Well, fuck the universe, he decides. He feels numb and dull, and it's enough to build up a false sense of confidence. He'll pack his bags and go. He'll find something better, and he'll make his dreams happen. This place will only make him suffer. This place will only make him wither and waste. Nothing ever thrives here.

Not Mickey.

Not anyone. 

...but they stay. So the only option is for him to go.

The young men standing in line cough as the bus exhaust puffs out around them, but it invigorates Ian. Makes him feel on top of the world. Invincible.  

He's Lip Gallagher. A new person. Successful. Smart. Going somewhere. He takes his seat on the bus, and gets lost in his thoughts.

Mickey's hand is pulling him in for a kiss _. He'll show them_. Mickey shudders beneath him, and his breath hitches, holding back tears. _He'll show them_. He buries himself in Mickey's neck one last time and breathes, his hand resting below Mickey's jaw, holding him firmly in place. _He'll show them_. Mickey's smiling at him in disbelief. _He'll show them_. Mickey's voice wavers.  _He'll show them_. 

He's going places.

_He'll show them._

"Don't, just --"

His smile falters, and he's not as numb as he thinks he is. 


End file.
